The Woman
by CrazyAngel777
Summary: How Sherlock loses his virginity. Takes place after The Scandal and Baskerville, but before Reichenbach. Sherlock/Irene Adler. I have no problem with Johnlock (I think it's actually very cute), but I also ADORE Irene Adler. Think of it this way- if Sherlock's straight, then we fangirls still have a fighting chance, if only in fiction. :-) MATURE CONTENT
1. Prelude

**The Woman (Prelude)**

The woman sank slowly to her knees, her mobile phone clutched in her right hand. She had somehow managed to talk her captors into allowing her one last message. Quite a feat, considering her reputation. She typed her last message and hit send—an action that hit her with a forceful finality. She handed the phone over to her captor, and stared straight ahead, her hand sinking slowly into her lap. She closed her eyes. Waited.

The moan. Her eyes shot open, barely believing what they had heard. For a moment she thought it was a delusion—one her dying brain had concocted after her spinal cord had been severed. But she could still feel her beating heart ravaging her ribcage; feel the sand beneath her knees and the perspiration in her palms. She looked in the direction the sound had come, and saw something that could have never been more beautiful than in these—what might be her last moments of life. Grey eyes behind a veil of black.

"When I say run… _run!_" She smiled as she saw him lift the blade behind him. She looked ahead again, still unsure if she should believe what she was seeing, but smiling nonetheless. She heard a soft thump and a groan, no doubt the blade coming in contact with her captor. She knew the others would be upon them soon, and figured she had waited long enough. She jumped up and ran to the Humvee, hiding behind it as she heard several more rapid footsteps advance on her savior. She peeked around the front grill of the Humvee, and saw a magnificent black shadow moving with ethereal grace and speed. The blade sliced effortlessly through artery and flesh, each one a deliberate and artfully executed death blow. Five men attacked at once, and five fell dead within minutes. Her savior straightened, looking around at the lumped bodies surrounding him. He pulled his veil away from his face, and looked over at her. She couldn't control her emotions any longer, and sprinted toward him. She didn't slow down, just let her body collide with his. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her face in his shoulder. She let out a small noise, part way between choking and sobbing. Her entire body felt drained, physically weak, and she let herself drape against him, overcome with fear and exhaustion. Her arms gripped his neck with such force, as if they were the only thing keeping her from collapsing entirely. She was unsure of what she was doing, or how he would react, but she knew she had been prepared to die only moments ago. She could think of nothing else but him, here, and how safe she felt for the first time in… a very long time. She just stood, clutching him with all the strength that remained to her, for what felt like hours. He didn't back away, never tried to break her embrace. Finally she pulled away from him, and looked up into those grey eyes. The moment their eyes met, he backed away one carefully measured step, and broke eye contact. He looked around the compound, most likely calculating numerous methods of escape, and said "You have to go. Now." He didn't wait for her to respond, instead sprinting toward a line of horses that were tied in a row near the Humvee. He sliced the horse's tie with his blade and jumped lithely onto the animal's back. The horse danced with anticipation and excitement as he gathered up the reigns. He steered the horse to the vehicles and slashed their tires with his blade.

"Take one of the horses. Harder to track." And with that, he thrust the reigns forward, giving the horse its head, and smacked its rear with the broad side of his blade. The horse took off, spraying sand out behind it in a massive cloud.

"Holmes!" She called after him. He kept galloping. "Holmes!" She called again, louder this time. His figure grew smaller against the night sky of the desert. "Sherlock!" She cried, and this time he pulled the horse up, its hooves grinding into the sand as it slid to a halt. He reigned the animal around, and she could barely make him out against the starlit sky. "Dinner?!" She called. She could barely make out an amused giggle, like the purr of a large cat, then he hissed at the horse, digging his heels into its sides, and he disappeared into the night. Sherlock never responds.


	2. Chapter 1

**Ch. 1**

He could still remember the events of that day, even though it had been two months. Five months since he had said his final goodbyes to The Woman. Five _agonizing _months. Months of seeing her face on the street when a woman passed by wearing the same shade of red on her lips. Months of being stopped dead in his tracks when a passing scent jolted him back to the scent of her hair on his pillow after she had slept in his bed. Months of taking crap cases just to get his mind off of her. Of waking up in the middle of the night, sweating and trembling from an alarmingly impassioned dream. And months of keeping John in the dark about all of it.

Quite frankly, it was exhausting. And maddening! Damn that woman.

In the months following the scandal, he had found himself less able to concentrate. His work suffered. He could still smell her perfume lingering in their flat, long after she had gone. He still heard that irritating text message tone, even though she never contacted him again, save the one. John had no idea, of course. Even when Sherlock felt like a complete head case, he could still function on a level that blew away any thoughts of doubt in others. _He_ knew though. He could tell… she had done something to him.

He lounged on the sofa, his hands behind his head, tucked under a pillow. He stared at the same speck on the ceiling, the one that always helped him through difficult cases. He had been pondering the rescue, marveling at his execution. The blade, the perfectly timed text message tone, the riding off on the horse (which had of course been for dramatic effect. He had always planned to double back to cover his tracks and fake her death. How did he do it? Wouldn't you like to know.) But what would normally be harmless meditations on his own achievements quickly spiraled into thoughts of her. Damn her! Now he couldn't even control where his own thoughts went.

He leaned over and grabbed his glass of scotch. John's 25-year-old single malt that he thought he could hide from Sherlock Holmes. Ha. He sipped the beverage, hoping the liquid would silence these pestilent thoughts. It did not.

It only reminded him of that night. That dreadful night with Molly Hooper. He had experienced a particularly disturbing nightmare. Well, he called it a nightmare. John would probably call it euphoria. It was one of those dreams that was quickly followed by a shower. Of the icy variety.

After the shower, he had stumbled into the kitchen and drank a considerable amount. He wasn't quite sure how it happened, or why, or even how quickly, but he had ended up at St. Bartholomew's, stumbling into the mortuary. Molly dropped whatever utensils she had in her hands, and stared at him in bewilderment. "Sherlock?" she whispered as she stood, frozen in shock.

"Yes. What?" he asked, as if he was just then realizing where he was, and that someone else was present. "Are you drunk?" Molly asked, unbelieving, and took several cautious steps toward him.

"Point One-Nine," he replied.

"What?" Molly asked, inching closer.

"Point One-Nine. My blood-alcohol content. Given my body weight and approximate metabolism, along with the amount and proof of alcohol I've been drinking, my blood alcohol content is point one-nine. Exactly point one-one over the legal driving limit. And given that the amount of balance, response, and motor function required for driving is factored into said calculations of sobriety when operating heavy machinery, I can tell you I am precisely too drunk to walk." He said, and slumped backwards against a wall. He wasn't quite sure if that last part was true, he was pretty sure he had walked there, but it sounded funny anyway. Molly rushed over to him, and tried to help him to a chair. He pushed her away lazily, and tried to focus his eyes, unsuccessfully. He found his own way to a stool, and plopped onto it.

"Sherlock, are you alright? What are you doing here? It's 2 o'clock in the morning." Molly asked, her hands poised in front of him, as if she thought he might wobble off his stool. Good plan.

"What are _you_ doing here?" He deflected, and Molly straightened, her mouth hanging open for a moment as she searched for her words.

"I… well, I was…" she stopped, probably noticing that her stuttering was not helping her case. "I couldn't sleep." Good answer. Simple. Explained nothing.

"Me neither." Very good. Hijack her response and continue circumventing her questions. Excellent. Maybe it would buy him some time to figure out just _what_ on earth he was doing here.

Molly stood for a moment, waiting for Sherlock to explain, or do… something.

"Okay, well, I now have some scalpels to sterilize."

His subconscious mind had brought him here for a reason. He didn't remember making the decision to come here, nor did he remember the journey. He remembered drinking a ridiculous amount of god knows what, then stumbling into the morgue. Why? Trace backwards. It started with the dream. With her. Red lips, pressing against his neck, fingernails digging into his skin, a breathless moan slithering past his ear…

Whoa. Okay, that explains why he drank so much. He was trying to get her out of his head, drown every thought of her in cheap booze. But why come here? Clearly the drinking hadn't helped. Here he was, just as plastered as he had been at home, still thinking about the same damn things. Maybe he had come up with some other solution. Maybe…

"So why couldn't you sleep?" Molly's soft voice echoed off the clean walls of the morgue, and somehow it seemed amplified far too loud. It jolted him back to reality.

Molly was standing at the sink, rinsing off the tools she had dropped on the floor. Of course! Molly had something to do with it. That made sense. The only other logical explanation he had come up with involved some embalming fluid and a cigarette.

Molly, then. He hadn't come to the morgue, he had come to Molly. He realized then what his drunken, stupefied brain had been thinking when it brought him here. If he couldn't get rid of his thoughts entirely, why not try to replace them?

"Oh," he said aloud, and Molly turned around with that same confused look she had when… well, always.

He stood then, his inhibitions gone. He would normally be repulsed by what he was about to do, but for some reason, he felt all warm and happy inside and couldn't find a reason not to try. If this worked, he would never have to think about _that woman_ ever again.

"I… need something from you, Molly," he said, and began the slow, unbalanced walk toward her. She smiled uncomfortably, and said "Okay," with caution.

He reached her position by the sink, and pulled the utensils from her hand. He set them gently down on the drying rack, and looked back at her. She stood frozen in the same spot, her hand still grasping invisible utensils. Her eyes shifted uneasily, and she leaned away from him slightly. "Sherlock, what are you…"

Her words ended abruptly, when his lips contacted hers. He was halfway between feeling what was real, right in front of him, and feeling what was in his head, what he had been trying to forget. Here, Molly's lips were reluctant, at first, but then they softened, and she leaned into him. But in his head, her hair was darker, her lips an intense shade of red. The woman in his head was much more demanding, vicious even. Her fingernails clawed at the sides of his neck, leaving raw red marks on his skin as she snaked one smooth, ivory leg up to his hip. He leaned against her, pressing her back against the counter…

The counter! Molly! He pushed away from her, and started to pace angrily, running a frustrated hand through his hair. This was not good. Not good at all. The solution had failed. Instead of replacing those vile thoughts, he had only imprinted them on Molly. Used her. He should never have come here.

He looked up, only to see Molly staring at him with wide eyes that held both longing and surprise. "I can't do this," he said hurriedly, and turned abruptly to leave.

"Sherlock," Molly whispered, as if she were afraid to say anything.

He kept walking as anger boiled up inside him. He was still as frustrated as ever, but now he had added humiliation to the mix. How would he even be able to look at Molly on the next case? He practically punched the morgue door, and it swung open so hard that it slammed back against the wall. He heard several glasses get knocked from the shelf just inside the door and shatter when they hit the ground. Perfect. Use her and humiliate her and then leave her with a mess to clean up. Well, look at it this way. She said she couldn't sleep. Not like she had anything better to do.


	3. Chapter 2

**Ch. 2**

Sherlock sat up from his lounging position on the couch, disgusted with the thoughts of that night in the morgue with Molly. That had been months ago. She had never said a word about it, of course. Not to him, or John, or Lestrade. They had shared an awkward moment of eye contact on their first case after that, but she looked away so quickly that no one noticed.

It made him sick. Thinking about it. His mind might be superhuman, but damn his body for being all too human. He had always been able to suppress those base urges—the kind of behavior that would get in the way of his work and distract him from what was really important. At least, he had been able to do so until _her. _Five months had passed, and he was still having the nightmares, still picturing her on the street, still longing to catch the scent of her on his pillow at night.

He looked over at the skull on the mantelpiece, where he knew a pack of cigarettes was hiding. He considered for a moment, then grabbed his glass of scotch and downed it. He forced himself to the window and thrust it open, letting in a barrage of howling wind and pelting rain. He didn't care, though. The cold of the air felt good. As did the rain. If only for a moment, his head was clear.

"Sherlock, dear!" Mrs. Hudson's voice was barely audible over the rain. Sherlock pulled himself away from the window, slamming it shut as he turned to see Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway. "I just found this at the front door. Somebody must have dropped it through the mail slip. I don't know who it's for, but it's certainly not for me," with those last words, Mrs. Hudson grinned and her cheeks blushed. Sherlock looked down at what was in her hand—a small unmarked envelope. No postage, so it must have been dropped by hand. It was splattered with rain, and the rain had only started twenty minutes ago, so it had been dropped recently. Sherlock took the envelope gingerly, and turned it over. Then, he understood why Mrs. Hudson had been grinning sheepishly and blushing. On the back flap of the envelope, in blood red lipstick, was a kiss. He knew that shade. Knew it _so _well.

"Who could that be from, I wonder?" Mrs. Hudson was prying. Of course, she still thought Irene Adler was dead. As did the rest of the world.

Sherlock looked up at Mrs. Hudson, and said simply, "You're still here?"

Mrs. Hudson looked like she would be offended, then she waved a dismissive hand at him and disappeared down the stairs.

Sherlock took only a moment more analyzing the envelope, then lifted the back flap. Inside was a single cocktail napkin from Speedy's Café, with two words penned in flawless, feminine cursive.

_Hungry yet?_


	4. Chapter 3

**Ch. 3**

He had a flash memory, instantaneous as he read those words.

_"Why would I want to have dinner… if I wasn't hungry?"_

_His hand at her wrist, her heart beating wildly as her pupils dilated._

He stood in the middle of his flat, staring at a cocktail napkin from the café just downstairs. Delivered within the last twenty minutes. He had just been standing at the window! How had he missed it?!

He tossed the envelope onto the table, and began pacing. What to do.

"Definitely don't follow her. Don't dare go chasing after her. That would be childish. And desperate," he mumbled to himself.

Damn.

He grabbed his coat off a chair and raced down the stairs, pulling his arms through the sleeves as he ran. He barreled out the front door and into the rain, right into the middle of the street. He looked both directions frantically, analyzing all the signs of life on the street. It was deserted to human traffic, the rain was keeping pedestrians indoors. A cab driver was in the process of flipping him off, as he had run directly into its path. Sherlock didn't even look at the cabbie as he said "Piss off."

He continued to look around, even spared a glance back at Speedy's. That would be a dead end, she wouldn't still be there. Too easy. And she would have been wearing a disguise, so no use talking to the server, either.

He realized how ridiculous he must look, standing in the middle of the road in the pouring rain, mumbling obscenities at cab drivers. She would be watching.

He pulled his coat collar up against the rain, and allowed his grey eyes to scan the street one last time.

_You, with your cheekbones and your turning your collar up so you look cool._

Sherlock smiled to himself as John's words from Baskerville echoed in his mind. She would be watching. And he looked cool.

He strolled lazily back inside, and pulled off his coat. Mrs. Hudson caught a glimpse of him in the hallway, and watched him ascend the stairs. "Sherlock, you're soaked. What were you doing out in the rain, love?" He ignored her and continued his ascent of the stairs. He tossed his coat on the chair, and shook out his curly black hair of rain water. No use in doing anything else. _She'll come to you. That little trick with the napkin… she's just toying with you._

He plopped down on the couch again, this time steepling his fingers beneath his chin. The same way he did when he was thinking deeply. Wait. Just wait. He would bet the remainder of that bottle of 25-year-old scotch (which could not have been cheap) that she would be here. Within the hour, even. So he waited.

He mulled over different thoughts. The rescue, the night with Molly, and then Moriarty. _No, that won't do. That won't do at all. Don't think about Moriarty, that will just make you uneasy._ Thinking about Moriarty and Adler, Moriarty and Molly. _God!_ Poor Molly. Getting used by everybody…

Click…

Click…

Click…

High heels. Ascending the stairs. His heart skipped a beat, and he cursed it for doing so. His entire body tingled, and adrenaline coursed through him until it drove him mad. He wanted to jump up, rush around the flat, find something to do to expel this energy! But he couldn't. Had to keep that same maddening façade that kept absolutely everyone guessing at his intentions, even when he was screaming on the inside.

Nine clicks. Nine stairs. To the landing. Approximately three footfalls on the landing. Then five more. Two more clicks before she would be at the top of the stairs. His heart was racing, but he kept his palms pressed together, his fingers steepled below his chin, his body completely rigid on the couch. He took one slow, deep breath as he heard the final two clicks of her heels. Then silence.

There it was. Her perfume. Rose petals. Plum. No… black cherry. A dark, seductive scent. That scent had permeated his sheets long after she had slept in his bed. Driven him mad. Perhaps that had been the cause of those infectious nightmares.

"Shame, shame," came a sickly sweet voice. He raised an eyebrow and glanced over at her without moving his hands from beneath his chin.

"You stand me up for dinner and not so much as a 'how-do-you-do?'" She chided as she pulled her black leather gloves off, slowly, one finger at a time.

He grinned, and took a deep breath. _Calm yourself. _He waited for a few moments, just enough to make her uncomfortable, then got up from the couch. He took the two long strides from the couch to the door, and stopped when his face was mere inches from hers.

"Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink?" he said. He kept his eyes fixed on hers, and tried to display all the strength and apathy that he knew he absolutely did not possess right now. The entire demonstration with the lipstick on the envelope, the napkin from Speedy's… it had definitely gotten his blood pumping. In the way only she could.

"Please," she responded, her eyes giving away as much about her as a keyless padlock.

Sherlock took only a moment, allowing himself to lean ever so slightly closer to her, before he turned and strode confidently into the kitchen.

"What would you like?" he called from the kitchen as he pulled two more glasses from the cupboard. The last of the clean dishes. John had really better do those dishes soon.

"Something hard… up" she said, and he couldn't help the slow smile that crept across his lips. He knew what she meant. Hard liquor, high proof. Straight up, no ice. But the innuendo was not lost on him. He poured her a vodka, and helped himself to another very liberal pour of scotch. He picked up his glass of scotch and downed it. Needed to calm his nerves. John would be furious. He had just chugged fifty-four pounds.

"Something bothering you, Mr. Holmes?" he actually jumped, an action for which he mentally chastised himself. _She can smell fear._

Her voice had come from directly behind him. Took her heels off. Smart. "You seem tense," she said, and then her hands were on his shoulders, massaging them in slow, rhythmic circles. _Yes. He was very, very bothered._ He steeled himself and turned, her glass of vodka in his hand.

"You can't stay long, John will be back any minute," he said, handing her the vodka.

"No he won't," she said with a smile, taking the vodka. Her fingertips touched his for an instant.

"No. He won't," Sherlock replied. _Damn. How does she do that?! _She could see through him the way he could see through… well, everyone else. John was away on a long weekend with some new woman at her lake house, or something. He hadn't really been paying attention when John told him.

Irene swirled her drink once, then downed it. Her eyes only left his for a moment. She looked back at him with an intensity that could crack diamond.

"I did not stand you up," he said, offended, and she laughed. She leaned past him to set her glass on the kitchen counter, and her proximity made him weak. The heat of her skin, that cursed perfume. He couldn't be sure, but he might have felt a tingling in the back of his knees. When she leaned back, she raised an eyebrow, and for a moment he was afraid she had seen the weakness in him. He looked down and cleared his throat.

"What are you doing here? In London, I mean," he asked, still staring down at the floor. He knew he was doing a crap job of deflecting, but he couldn't think of anything else. He knew exactly why she was here. And he had no idea how to handle it.

Suddenly her hands were at the collar of his shirt, and her fingers were slowly working the buttons. The first, second, third. "Five months… and that's what you want to talk about? Why I'm in London?" Fourth, fifth. "While we're at it, why don't we discuss the weather, too? Lovely, isn't it?" Sixth. Her hands were very low now. _Think, THINK. Make her stop. How to make her stop?! _Her hands reached the waistband of his slacks, and he felt her fingernails graze the sensitive skin of his stomach. He cleared his throat again, loudly, and slid from between her and the counter. He walked hastily into the living room, not sure what he was doing but absolutely positive that he was entirely out of his element. For probably the first time in his life, he had no idea what to do.

He ran a nervous hand through his hair, and started pacing. He knew she was watching and that he probably looked like a lunatic but he just needed a moment to _think! _When she was so close, when she was touching him, he couldn't think, could hardly breathe. He had to get away from her for one moment, just to figure out what the hell was going on.

Wasn't this what he wanted? After those agonizing months of thinking about her, dreaming about her… she was finally here. After all those frustrating nightmares that made him feel things he had never felt before, and feel them with such a burning intensity that some nights he woke up moaning, covered in sweat. Hadn't he wanted her to come back? Yes. But he was completely unprepared for anything after that.

He was suddenly aware of how exposed he was. His shirt was completely unbuttoned, down to his slacks, and he could already feel himself beginning to tremble. He took a deep breath, and looked back at Irene. She was lounging comfortably against the kitchen table, her arms crossed and a wide smile on her lips. She knew. She knew everything going on in his head, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. He just wanted to smack her. _But that would be wrong. Or, so I'm told._


	5. Chapter 4

**Ch. 4**

One of two things was about to happen. He was either going to tell her to leave, which was a viable option, given how incredibly uncomfortable she was making him. Or, he would let her stay. Which his entire body was screaming at him to do. The weakness he was feeling… it was irritating, yes. But intoxicating. He hated it but wanted more at the same time. He mulled over his options, the fingers on his right hand twitching anxiously. But he waited too long. If he had wanted to kick her out, the time had come and gone.

"So tell me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes…" she said, sauntering into the living room like a cat stalking her prey. "What do you like?"

"Why?" he replied, looking up at her irritably. "So you can tell some poor sap one day that you know this detective, or that you know what he likes?" he said, his eyes finding her body for the first time. He had been avoiding looking at her, and for good reason. She never failed to impress. She had removed her coat and heels, and stood before him in a peplum top and pencil skirt, both of which accentuated all the curves she had in all the right places.

"No," she said casually, placing a hand gently on his exposed chest. He wanted to squirm away from her touch so badly, but at the same time it was sending incredible waves of warmth across every inch of his skin. "Because I really…" she placed her other hand on his chest, just below the collarbone. "Want…" she leaned forward, her breath on his ear. "To know," she whispered, and an involuntary shudder ran down his spine. She leaned back, smiling. She had felt it. It amused her, what she was doing to him. Alright, then. Two can play at this game.

He raised a hand, and placed it gently under her chin. He traced the outline of her bottom lip with his thumb, admiring that shade of red that had been driving him mad for months. She opened her mouth ever so slightly, and the warmth of her breath slithered past his fingertip. He leaned forward, his hand still under her chin, and his lips were so close to hers, they could touch any minute…

"I'd like another scotch," he said, and walked briskly back into the kitchen. This time he wasn't deflecting, this time _he_ was toying with _her._ She laughed, but not out of amusement. It was more a noise she made in frustration.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said from behind him. He didn't even bother with a glass this time, just took a swig from the bottle.

"You don't know, do you?" she asked, and he distinctly heard the sound of a zipper. He was afraid to turn around, but did so anyway. Slowly. He clutched the bottle of scotch as if it were a weapon, his only protection from her. When he had finally faced the living room, he found Irene in her pencil skirt and a very lacy bra. Her hands were behind her, slowly working a zipper on the skirt, just at the top of her butt.

"You don't know what you like?" she said, letting the skirt drop to the floor, revealing an equally scandalous pair of underwear. He didn't look away. He had seen more of her, of course, but this time was different. There was something different about the way she took her clothes off _for him._

He didn't answer her question. It was just an extension of a question she'd already asked him, quite a long time ago. He hadn't answered her then, either.

She walked to the door of the flat, and closed it. Locked it. She continued into the kitchen, and took the bottle from him, taking a quick swig herself. He hadn't taken her for a scotch drinker.

"Well, that's alright, if you don't," she said, setting the bottle on the counter and leaning her entire body against his. "I can help with that,"


	6. Chapter 5

**Ch. 5**

Her lips pressed against his as her entire body leaned into him. He had kissed other women before, of course. Molly. That one oddball girl at University. But Irene's kiss was unlike anything he had ever felt before. He had imagined how her lips would feel, had felt them in his dreams. But this, the way she yearned for him… how hungry she was. Her hands slid up his chest, one stopping just beneath his collarbone, the other snaking its way around his neck until her fingers coursed through his hair. He didn't dare return the kiss, he was clinging to some small hope that he might still be able to control this situation. At least, until she curled her fingers through his hair, tickling just at the base of his skull with her fingernails. He couldn't help it. He leaned into her kiss. She took a deep breath in, almost a gasp, and clawed her other hand down his chest and stomach. She wrapped her hand around his lower back and pulled him closer. His bare stomach touched hers, and all of a sudden his hands were working without his brain. He didn't know where his brain was. It had apparently checked out for the evening.

His mutinous hands found her hips. Her skin was hot under his fingertips. Her kiss became more passionate until finally she grasped a chunk of his hair and pulled him back. Electricity crackled in her eyes, and he was honestly a little intimidated. He had only moments to maintain her gaze before her open hand contacted his face, hard. His head whipped to the side, and his eyes widened in shock.

Irene's blood red lips erupted into a smile.

"There," she said, backing away and delicately tracing her lips with her index finger, to catch any smeared lipstick. "I've wanted to do that since the day we met," she said coolly, and turned to saunter into the living room. Her lacy black underwear revealed a little of her butt, and Sherlock noticed with some discomfort that he was staring at it.

He actually shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. She had slapped him. And what was worse… he liked it. He wanted to run after her and slam her against a wall, hold her by the throat and curse her for all the things she'd done to him. But he restrained himself, and instead opted for a slow, uneasy walk into the living room. He felt drunk, but he knew it hadn't been the scotch. It had done its job, of course. Numbed his outer extremities, calmed his nerves, but he hadn't drank nearly enough to be this wobbly. This felt different. His entire body felt weak, like she had literally drained him with that kiss. He stopped in the living room, and found her sitting on the couch, her silky ivory legs tucked up underneath her. She was patting the seat cushion next to her, inviting him to join her. He looked around the flat anxiously for a moment. _Nope, still no logical way to get out of this._

He sat next to her nervously, both hands on his knees. His fingers tapped at his knees furiously, and he stared straight ahead. This was going to happen. He just had to accept it. He would sleep with her. He wanted to. Of course he wanted to. For months. But it actually did scare him. _She _scared him.

"Oh, Sherlock," Irene said, and her hand was at the back of his neck, massaging it gently. "No reason to be nervous,"

"I'm not nervous. Who said I was nervous? Why would I be…"

Irene pushed his shoulder gently, so he fell back against the couch. She extended one long, smooth leg over him, and all of a sudden she was straddling him, and he had no idea what words were supposed to come out of his mouth next. He had been saying something… what was it?

She leaned down and planted a torturously light kiss on his neck, just below his ear. She moved up and sucked on his earlobe, then whispered "Because you've never had anyone,"

He could hear the smile in her voice as she said it. She was amused because she had figured it out. Something very intimate and very personal about him, and she had figured it out.

He never liked this feeling. Being inexperienced when in the presence of an expert. She probably had all sorts of plans for him swirling around in her head, and he was drawing a total blank. He knew all about sex, yes. The chemistry of it, the biology. But not the feeling. She had power over him in this instant, because she had knowledge over him. Power that he could not overcome. He would just have to succumb to it. She really was a damn good dominatrix.


	7. Chapter 6

**Ch. 6**

Now the only remaining problem. How to go about letting her have him. Because the anxiety was still too much for him. The idea of sex didn't scare him, per se. He had of course dreamed about it, fantasized about it, when his cursed human body assumed control of his brain. Like late at night, in the dark, when he was feeling lonely and impulsive. But allowing another person to be that close to him, allowing _her_ to be that close, to see him vulnerable… that was what scared him the most. He never let anyone get that close. Especially not a woman. Not _this _woman.

He shivered at the thought, and recoiled slightly as her hands slid over his shoulders, pushing his unbuttoned shirt the rest of the way down his arms. He had better figure something out, and fast. It was like he had built up so much momentum and then hit a brick wall. He wanted to have sex with her. Desperately. The circumstances were ripe. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen right here, right now. But he was experiencing a very problematic mental block. He couldn't bring himself to just let go of his anxiety. Instead of acting like an animal, which was essentially all sex was—an animal instinct, he was still acting like a detective. Like a scientist.

That's it! He would have to treat this experience as an experiment. Motivation, circumstance, equipment (no pun intended)—all things required for an effective experiment. Just maybe, if he allowed his mind to continue analyzing and piecing together those aspects of this experience that were causing him the greatest anxiety, maybe he would be able to let go.

Finally he felt liberated. He had figured it out, figured _her _out. His greatest debacle. If she… if _they_ were just an experiment, then he wouldn't have to truly let her get close. He could participate in the experiment without ever allowing himself to be vulnerable to her. He could remain distanced, as he had always been. And after all was said and done, he would no longer be a captive to her power.

Irene was gently kissing his neck and running her fingers through his hair. Her fingernails grazed the back of his neck as she kissed just beneath his jawline. He began analyzing the situation. Controlled variable- himself. He could always control his own actions… well, that was not entirely true. The more time he spent around her, the less he found he could control himself. Whatever. Consider it the dependent variable and move on. Uncontrolled variable- her. Very, very uncontrollable.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, he felt her teeth sink into his skin, just at the base of his neck, on the muscle of his shoulder. The feeling sent shockwaves through his body, and he let out an involuntary whimper. Damn. He had felt so in control a moment ago. And with one swift strike, she had broken him down again.

She leaned back after hearing him whimper, and grinned diabolically. "Seems I've found something you like," she said, tracing a fingernail gingerly over the crescent shaped bite mark on his neck. His skin was so tender from the bite that the feeling of her fingernail sent a violent shiver down his entire body. He clenched his fists, angry at himself. _Get a grip._

Irene reached up and removed a single clip from her hair, allowing her long waves of dark amber to cascade over her shoulders. She reached down and grabbed both his wrists, forcing his hands to rest on her thighs. He hadn't voluntarily touched her yet, and he was painfully aware why. Her skin was so smooth, so warm. He almost found himself wanting to close his eyes… get lost on the feeling of her…

No. Stay in control. She may have been running the show, but that didn't mean he had to remain her puppet. He had to start acting like a scientist. Like a man.

He leaned forward and pulled his shirt the rest of the way off, tossing it to the floor. He planted a rough kiss on her lips, and his hands slid confidently up her thighs, around to her butt. He pulled her closer, so she was positioned firmly on his lap. He stared her right in the eyes as he did something very reckless. He reached up her back, quickly, before his nerves got the better of him, and unclipped her bra with one swift flick of his fingers. She smiled at his newfound confidence, and tilted her head in curiosity.

"I don't get you, Mr. Holmes," she said, and he smiled in return. He was just now realizing that he confused her in exactly the same ways she did him. He leaned forward, his face inches from hers.

"Good,"


	8. Chapter 7

**Ch. 7**

Irene smiled, her gaze never leaving his, as she drew her fingers along her collarbones, slowly sliding her bra straps along her shoulders. She pulled the garment from her arms, and let it dangle from one finger before dropping it to the floor, on top of Sherlock's discarded shirt. He kept his eyes trained on hers. This was a trick she had probably used on countless men, including him. Her body was her greatest weapon, and she knew exactly how to use it. His smartest move at this point in the game was not to play. So he didn't look. Just held her gaze. She narrowed her eyes, her hands once again finding his bare chest. She fanned her fingers out over his skin, and let her eyes wander down to his body.

"Oh, Sherlock. You're a terrible liar," she said with a grin.

"Liar?"

"You don't want to be a mystery to me. You want me to understand," she said, and crawled backwards, like a hauntingly elegant spider. She backed away from him, and lowered herself to her knees on the floor. She allowed her hands to move with her, sliding them first down his chest, then to his thighs, where she curled her fingers so her fingernails clawed gently at his pants. He hissed in a breath, trying to keep his mind on the plan. _You are not her puppet, don't let her play you like one._

"You want me to know the deep, dark parts of yourself that no one else knows. You want me to know just how sick you really are,"

"How do you know I'm sick?" poor choice of words. Sounded like he was agreeing with her. Should have said _if._ How do you know _if_ I'm sick.

She smiled. "Because you're a genius,"

"Flattering,"

"Shut it!" she snapped, her voice like a whip. "I'm not finished," she said coolly, and the smile on her lips was absolutely wicked. A whip. How appropriate.

"Because you're a genius, and all geniuses are twisted. If you're so phenomenally smarter than everyone else on the planet, then it wouldn't make any sense for you to behave like everyone else. You've got to go so much farther. You've got to do unthinkable things just to feel anything,"

He found himself completely stunned. Not only because every word had made perfect sense, but because he honestly couldn't refute a word of it either.

And on top of all of that, her breathtaking monologue had completely distracted him from the fact that she had unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants.

_Bollocks._


	9. Chapter 8

**Ch. 8**

**Content Warning- Smut. Seriously. That's all I'm going to say. You are warned!**

_Okay. Right. Remember the plan. This is just an experiment. Treat it like one. Don't freak out. Scientists don't freak out._

But all of a sudden she was touching him. In the most intimate way possible. He jumped at the first contact of her hand on him. It was alien and strange. Intense. But he wanted so much more, _needed_ more. His heart started beating wildly, so fast and so hard he could hear it in his own ears, feel the pounding at his fingertips. His breathing was rapidly increasing, until he was taking short, quick breaths. He had never felt anything like it. He could hardly move, his entire body was frozen from sensory overload. He felt helpless, vulnerable. Exactly the way he had planned _not_ to feel. But he couldn't have planned for this. His entire body was trembling, every sensation felt heightened to such intensity. His skin crawled, his eyes were unfocused, and he could hear a slight ringing in his ears. It was incredible. He was starting to understand why John was always mindlessly chasing after women, like a lovesick puppy.

He couldn't handle it, couldn't process the sensations. He couldn't even form logical thoughts. He was reduced to a mindless heap, subject to whatever whims Irene Adler had in store for him. Well, at least he had stopped overthinking everything. Now he couldn't think at all.

He felt ashamed, having succumbed to such base desires. And yet he was longing for her shamelessly. He rested his head back against the couch, and draped his arm over his eyes, attempting to at least block out some sensory input, try to hone his thoughts. That didn't help. It only trained his brain on the touch sensation that was driving him absolutely insane. His stomach muscles were contracting as his breaths came deeper and longer. He clenched his fists against a quickly building pressure. With every stroke of her hand he felt himself slowly losing his grip, his control over himself. A long, uncontrollable moan escaped his lips, and his heart was beating so hard he could feel his own pulse at his throat. He was so overwhelmed, he was beginning to doubt this, doubt himself. Could he really do this? What if he backed out now? Would he even be able to? He was so alarmed by what he was feeling that he couldn't think of anything better than just getting the hell out of there.

"Irene, stop." He said, and she looked up at him, genuinely surprised. He looked down at her, and he knew the look on his face did not resemble the strong, indifferent Sherlock she knew. He felt like a schoolboy again, at the hands of another merciless bully.

"You don't… we don't have to do this. Just…" he couldn't think of anything else to say. His voice was shaky enough as it was, he didn't want to embarrass himself any more. Curse this damn woman. Since when did Sherlock run out of words?

Instead of being shocked or even understanding, Irene simply smiled a wicked smile. "That's one," she said, and stood. She slipped her fingers into the lace of her underwear, and slowly started working them down her hips. He narrowed his eyes questioningly. _What did she mean by that?_

"I told you. Twice," she said, and let her underwear drop around her ankles. _Oh. Beg for mercy twice. Got it._

"That wasn't begging," he said, and couldn't help the little grin that formed at the edges of his lips.

"Oh really?" she said, and straddled him again. He gasped in a short breath. This time, she was completely naked, and his pants were undone. This was the closest he had even been to a woman. "I beg to differ, but if you want me to keep trying, I can make you say whatever I want you to say. That way there's no confusion next time. Is that what you want?" she asked, and leaned forward, her lips kissing gently below his ear. He felt her tongue at his neck, and then her teeth. She nibbled playfully at the sensitive skin of his neck, and his entire body shivered violently.

"Alright, fine, if I admit it was begging, will you stop?" he asked, and she leaned back, another devilish smile on her lips.

"No," she said, and wrapped a hand around his wrist. She brought his hand up to her mouth and started kissing his fingertips gently. First his middle finger, then his index finger. "If there's one rule of being a dominatrix," she said between kisses. "It's never, _ever_ stop once the begging starts," she took his index finger into her mouth and sucked on it. He swallowed, hard, and watched her talented red lips intently. She released his finger and inched her body closer, until she was poised above him, and wrapped her hands around the sides of his neck. "Besides, we've still got one more to go,"

He couldn't help it. He actually smiled.


	10. Chapter 9

**Ch. 9**

Irene ran a hand through his hair, and their eyes locked. He held her gaze, and found something very strange. There was desire, of course. But there was something else in her eyes, something he didn't think she meant for him to see. Her dark ember eyes always glowed with a white hot intensity and sexuality, and her gaze could break even the strongest will of a man. Hell, look at him. She had broken him, hadn't she?

But underneath that mask—the confident, powerful Irene—there was something surprising. Something much gentler. She looked at him the way he never saw her look at anyone else. He had spent months studying her, trying to figure her out. He saw the way she looked at other men. John. Mycroft. Like she was watching a loaded gun. Always searching for weakness, cracks in the mold. But the way she looked at him… it was like he was one of the only men she didn't have to fear.

He blinked several times as the realization hit him. He took a deep breath, and leaned forward, pressing his lips against hers. This time it didn't feel forced. He let himself take his time, savoring the feeling of her lips, the taste of her. She moved her lips in tandem with his, and took his bottom lip between hers. She moaned against his lips, and the sound sent a wave of electricity through his entire body. She placed both her hands on his neck, pulling him into her kiss. His heart skipped a single beat as she lowered herself onto him, and suddenly he was inside her. He let out a helpless moan, and clenched his eyes shut. The feeling of her was so intense, he almost couldn't breathe. He gripped her thighs, hard, and broke her kiss. He couldn't stand the intensity of the sensation, it was sending wave after wave of such immense pleasure through his entire body. He rested his forehead against her collarbone, and she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck. His breaths were coming in long, labored gasps as she slowly began to move her body. He could feel the pressure building already, and wrapped one hand around her lower back, pulling her closer. His body was trembling uncontrollably, and he couldn't even form logical thoughts. All he could think about was her. How immensely he had wanted her. For months on end. And now he had her.

He let out a small whimper as the emotions and sensations flooded his mind. He couldn't hold back any longer. This wasn't just an experiment. He couldn't imagine her as just another variable anymore. The Woman that had finally broken him deserved more respect than that.

He spun her around, onto the couch, so he was on top of her. He kissed her lips, but with more passion than he had ever felt before. She wrapped her legs around his hips, and he relished the feeling of her skin on his. His own body weight made him press down against her, and he could feel her heartbeat against his chest. It was beating just as wildly as his was.

He began kissing her jawline as he timidly began moving his hips. He was unsure of himself, but he knew he couldn't stop. He felt like no matter how much he tried, he couldn't get enough of her. His hand shook as he softly caressed down her side, to her hip, and down her leg. She clenched her legs around him, in reaction to his touch. She arched her back, her stomach contacting his, and clawed at his back, her fingernails dragging down his flesh. He let out a somewhat loud cry, and his hips bucked forcefully once. Irene chuckled quietly, the amusement in her voice clear. It was both annoying and sexy. Her giggling. He felt like shutting her up.

He reached up and held her throat, his thumb caressing her jawline. He kissed her neck, relishing the feeling of her pulse on his lips. He moved his kisses down her neck, to her collarbone, as he continued moving his hips in a steady rhythm. She squirmed beneath him, and moaned long and slow, his name escaping her lips breathlessly. He shuddered violently at the sound of his own name being whispered like that, with such desire. He had never felt wanted like this. It was intoxicating, and he couldn't believe the effect it had on him. He whimpered involuntarily, and his hips began to move faster. He felt a pressure building quickly, and ached for release. He wanted so badly to get a hold of himself, get a grip on his thoughts, but he had never needed anything as badly as he needed her, right now. He was insatiable—couldn't get close enough to her, couldn't get enough of her. He tried to pull her closer, but only managed to press their bodies together harder, creating an unbearable friction. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, as more uncontrollable whimpers escaped his lips. He knew what was about to happen, but could not have been more poorly prepared for it.

He felt as though tension had been building from the moment he met Irene Adler. And all that time it had just kept building and had never been satisfied. He was unaware of how powerful it truly was until it came crashing down on him. All at once, right here, on his couch, with Irene's flawless, naked body wrapped around his. It coursed through him, making his skin crawl and the muscles of his entire body contract in the most extreme and incredible loss of control he had ever felt. All that tension that had built up within him exploded throughout his body. He clenched his fists against the intensity of it, and his toes curled as he released an involuntary cry, his hips thrusting hard against her. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close as wave after wave of ecstasy wracked his entire body before allowing him to collapse in exhaustion on top of her.

He was completely unable to move, to even think. He just laid there, trying to catch his breath as the weight of what had just happened slowly sank in. Irene ran her hands through his hair gently, and he couldn't help but get lost in the sound of her heartbeat, her steady breathing. He didn't know how long they stayed there, but he was grateful for Irene's silence. He was attempting to sort through so many emotions, many of which he had never felt before, all with a brain that had just been put through hell and wasn't working very efficiently. He got the feeling that Irene understood that. Understood _him,_ better than he'd like to admit.

A thought crossed his mind, and before he knew it, a small giggle escaped his lips.

"What?" Irene said, the curiosity obvious in her voice. Sherlock looked up at her, that debonair smile of his spreading across his lips.

"You only got one. You said 'twice.' You failed, Miss Adler," he said, staring daggers into her eyes. She laughed heartily, and leaned in close, her lips inches from his.

"That's where you're wrong, Mister Holmes. I'm not finished with you yet,"


	11. Chapter 10 THE END!

**Ch. 10**

Sherlock woke with a start, as sunlight poured in the window and warmed his skin. He blinked several times, waiting for his groggy, sleep-addled brain to catch up. He was in his bed. Naked. Not unusual. He went to rub the sleep from his eyes, and felt something cold and metallic yank his wrist back. Handcuffs. Unusual. He looked up at the headrest of his bed to find his right hand handcuffed rather firmly to the bedframe. He stared at it for several moments, then looked around his bedroom in confusion. He scanned his surroundings, and realized with little shock that Irene had probably been gone for hours. The side of the bed she had slept on was already cold. Could he have expected any less from the devious Irene Adler? He smiled as he started sorting through memories, the events of the previous night itching at his consciousness to revisit them.

He remembered her pulling him from the couch, and leading him toward his bedroom. He remembered not making it to the bedroom. Several times. He remembered becoming more confident as the night went on. And her becoming more dominant, more demanding. They fed off each other. As his confidence grew, she became more ravenous, up until the very last memory he could recall, which explained the handcuffs and a red, stinging whip mark on his inner thigh that he was now painfully aware of. He assumed the handcuffs were another of her lovely parting gifts.

He smiled and rolled over, searching through the top drawer of his bedside table. He always had random trinkets in there, surely one of them would be sufficient to pick the lock on a pair of handcuffs.

Irene. She had taken everything from his drawer that might be used to pick a lock. Crafty, Woman. He smiled wider and shook his head. _You can't outsmart Sherlock Holmes._

Wrong.

She had cuffed him to the frame, not the bedpost, so he couldn't just lift the bed and remove the cuff. And after nearly two hours of leaning every which way against the cuffs, trying to leverage his weight against the bed, even trying to reach his clothes dresser with an outstretched foot… he realized she indeed _had_ outsmarted him. He plopped back onto his bed and stared at the cuffs, huffing out a defeated half-sigh, half-laugh. She really had thought of everything.

The simplest solutions were also the most detrimental to his pride. He couldn't call Mrs. Hudson. He could only imagine trying to explain his nudity and somewhat disheveled and… beaten look. Molly… oh god, not Molly. And John wouldn't be back from holiday for another two days.

He would have to get help from someone. There were no other options. He honestly considered starving himself for two days, and waiting for John to get back, but that would only delay his humiliation. And there was no way John would be adult about it. Hell, if positions were reversed, there was no way Sherlock would be adult about it either.

After reluctantly coming to terms with this reality, he found his phone on the bedside table. He stared at the screen in disgust for several moments, then sent a text to his only remaining option: Lestrade.

**221b. Now.**

Within minutes, he received a reply.

**On a case, Sherlock. I'm busy.**

To which he replied simply

**Come alone.**

He knew his candor and lack of explanation would spark Lestrade's curiosity. He wouldn't be able to resist finding out just what was so urgent that he had to drop everything and come to Sherlock's flat. _You just wait._

Just as Sherlock had expected, within half an hour, Lestrade's voice could be heard as he ascended the stairs to 221 B.

"Sherlock?" he called, and Sherlock could hear his heavy detective's boots on the wooden floor of the flat. He grimaced at the humiliation he was about to endure, but steeled himself, placing one of his decorative bed pillows over his unmentionables, and called back, "In here,"

Lestrade strolled in through the bedroom door, and stopped dead in his tracks, the shock evident on his face. Before he had the chance to say anything, Sherlock issued a preemptive clarification.

"Experiment,"

A grin was starting to spread across Lestrade's face, and he crossed his arms in amusement and leaned casually against the doorframe. Sherlock huffed a sigh, and looked away, knowing he couldn't look Lestrade in the face.

After a few uncomfortable seconds, Lestrade said in an amused tone "So. Um… how'd it go?"

_Dammit, Lestrade, shut up and help me!_

"Irrelevant," Sherlock snapped, and wiggled his wrist dramatically, making a point of the handcuffs. Lestrade looked down at them, clearly acknowledging Sherlock's predicament but refusing to move from his spot in the doorway.

"No, I think it's entirely relevant! You pulled me away from a very important case…"

"Doubtful," Sherlock said, his usual mocking tone seeping through.

"Alright, fine. Be an infant. I don't have to help you. I think I'll just go back to that _very_ _important_ work I was doing!" and with that, he turned to leave.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called, and heard the boots halt in the hallway. "Wait," he said, the words forced from his mouth like the ill-begotten admission of a guilty child.

Lestrade meandered back into the room, a wide grin on his face. He knew damn well that Sherlock had no other options, and he was milking it for all it was worth. Sherlock shook his head, and toyed with what words to use. He looked down at his own appearance, and motioned helplessly at himself. "Use your imagination," he said, and Lestrade let out an exasperated giggle.

"I am, Sherlock," he said, and pulled a pair of handcuff keys from his pocket as he approached the bed. _Finally! _"And it's quite disturbing," he said, picking the lock with a simple twist of the keys. Sherlock let out a relieved sigh, and sat up, rubbing his wrist.

"By the way," Lestrade said, replacing the keys to his pocket and motioning to Sherlock's neck. "You've got lipstick on your neck,"

Sherlock's hand flew to his neck, and he rubbed it vigorously, then looked down at his hand only to find there was no lipstick.

"Like candy from a baby," Lestrade said with a laugh, and turned to leave the room. Sherlock grinned, surprised at Lestrade's cunning, and pelted the pillow from his lap directly into Lestrade's back.

"That had better not been your nether pillow," Lestrade said without turning, and continued down the hall.

"You know normal people would say 'Thank you!'" he called from the stairs, and Sherlock listened as his boots descended the stairs, until he was out the door and into his car.

"Well thank god I'm not normal," Sherlock uttered to himself, and stood, finding a pair of pants in his clothes dresser for which he had never been more grateful. He shuffled toward his bathroom, stretching his aching body. He felt pleased with himself. He trusted Lestrade wouldn't say a word on the matter, except maybe to John, and John would probably believe it when pigs sprouted wings.

He smiled as he caught the lingering scent of Irene's perfume floating in the air. That would have driven him mad only days ago. But he smiled as he realized the scent only triggered some very poignant flash memories—memories that he could now secretly covet in his own mind. He felt more at peace than he had ever felt before.

He shuffled into the bathroom and flipped on the light. He straightened in shock as he beheld something strange. In the mirror, he could see his own reflection. His hair was ruffled into an untamable black mess, and his eyes were puffy from lack of sufficient sleep. He had several very distinctive fingernail marks on his chest, and that welt on his thigh was growing in size and color. But, there was something else about the mirror that was bugging him. He blinked several times, aware that his brain needed some very strong coffee before it would start to function at Sherlock level. When his eyes focused and pulled back, away from his reflection, he noticed the problem. Written in blood red lipstick on his bathroom mirror, in that flawless, feminine cursive…

_Thanks for dinner._

And below that, still in lipstick, was drawn a very curvy heart.

Touché, Woman. Touché.

* * *

**Author's Note: **That's all, folks! Thanks to all my loyal readers and reviewers! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it! :-) Now, onto the next! (Which, I actually wanted to run by you guys). I have been contemplating a Moriarty fan fic. Don't know how many of you are Moriarty fans (well, maybe "fan" isn't the right word. Halfway through Reichenbach I wanted to choke the life out of that little cretin), but I have what can only be deemed a schoolgirl-level crush on him. I was thinking of writing his backstory, and how he grew up to be what he is now. So it would probably be way less smut than this one (but still some, tee hee) and a lot more violence. I just think anyone who's that sick has to have come from some crazy-ass shit. Just wanted to run that little nugget of thought past you guys. Again, thanks for reading! Hope to see you back again soon!


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